


We Interrupt This Broadcast

by pressEforMEDIC



Series: Things I Wrote At 1AM (That May Continue) [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Unreliable Narrator, ain't gonna., blizzard hire me for your writers pls, catch me with these tags boy see if i give a fuck, god should i continue this, if you think i am tagging every RED character ding dong you are wrong, introductions, unreliable sense of fuckin time dammit, vote now on your phones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 23:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressEforMEDIC/pseuds/pressEforMEDIC
Summary: No, they don't even talk.





	We Interrupt This Broadcast

**Author's Note:**

> idfk what im doing i might make THIS one a series but i literally press buttons until something happens

 

'Meeting the team' is not as simple as one may hope. 

 

When it came to the other eight members that make up the mercenary force of RED, Misha was at a bit of a loss. 

 

They were all congregated in some sort of office-like area, which only has a single desk tucked off in the farthest corner of the room. Nobody dared approach Misha, which he was thankful for, for now, since the rest of his teem seemed awfully strange. 

There was a rather skinny-looking man leaning against a wall with his arms folded across his chest. A tired-looking Frenchman and some sort of American with the brightest helmet that Misha has seen in a while were babbling away while what Mikhail assumed to be a very young adult pestered them about drinks. Another helmeted merc stood motionless nearby. 

A kilt-clad man was leaning against the man against the wall murmuring quietly and even though Mikhail understood English, he had no idea as to what the man was saying--and more importantly, was a bit concerned that the man seemed  _drunk_. 

While mercenaries are not necessarily on the same level as army-class soldiers, they should at the very least retain some semblance of professionalism. The entire room was loud (save for the mumbling Scot and his apparent post), and Misha wanted to leave before it got any worse. The whole team did not seem to be present as of yet, however, and that's what they were waiting for--whereas most of them had arrived to this base in the morning, they were exhausted from travel and less pleased with having to be in this setting. 

Mikhail was no exception. He had arrived to New Mexico by train, train, train, and  _train_ , over a span of what seemed like forever, only to be told that he 'couldn't sleep yet, they have to discuss business'. Isn't that what they signed all of those papers for? 

He was settled closer to the desk itself rather than risk being near the rest of his team, and gave it a quick glance. It didn't seem to have any special qualities in of itself, and appeared to be of average quality. There wasn't a single thing on it or near it. Thankfully for Misha, he didn't have to be disappointed for long. 

 

The chatter quickly died down as a few new faces walked in. 

There was a young woman with a lilac blouse and a black skirt on carrying a clipboard in one hand, and holding the hand of another person with her other. The individual in question was in some sort of what Misha assumed to be a boiler suit, fitted with a gas mask that completely covered their head. Misha quickly recognised the woman in question as Miss Pauling--the one who had helped him with his contracts. 

 

"Right, right, okay, ohh okay...ah, we're here now! Go sit down while we talk, okay?" She was holding the gloved hand of the other person (He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman) as if they were her child, before releasing them. They quickly shuffle off across the room and sit against the farthest wall, with every member of the team that happened to be in their path parting ways to make room. 

The group is silent, watching the woman intently, which almost immediately makes her seem flustered as she fumbled with the clipboard she was carrying. "Perfect! You're all here, except for, you know, obviously. Um. Hi! You boys might remember me as Miss Pauling, I help with the work and the contracts and--well, pretty much anything that needs doing!" She laughs. 

 

Everyone stares, and with that she pushes up her glasses. 

 

Miss Pauling clears her throat, visibly scanning the room and counting heads with a small gesture of her pen. "Right, perfect. So the team's medic isn't here right now, he's busy doing...well, medical things  _I hope_ , so we're going to continue without him. I know that you all must be tired--" There's a collection of groans in response, but it doesn't stop her. "-but there's a few things we need to do. I was thinking we could make this fun, you know? Like a little name game!" 

There's a pregnant pause. 

"..I'll take that as a no, then. Why don't we just announce our codenames and go down the list. You were all carefully instructed not to share your real names with one another, and I am going to take this moment that you are  _contractually obligated_ to uphold that. So!" 

 

She makes direct eye-contact with Mikhail, despite still being mostly in the doorway of the room herself. It wasn't unexpected; after all, he was the biggest merc in the room, but he had at least wished he wouldn't be the first. It felt more like they were at their first day of school rather than the meeting that introduces hardened killers (and one boy) to eachother. 

He sniffs, shifting his weight from one foot to another before taking the hint. "I am Heavy Weapons Guy." This instantly prompts a comment from the boy with the hat, who pops out of nowhere like some sort of gopher. "Yeah, obviously. Guess 'weapons' ain't the only thing 'heavy' about'cha, huh?" Misha doesn't even look in the boy's direction, despite the few snickers among the mercenaries. 

Pauling seems less than impressed. "Come on, guys, can we at least  _try_   and act like adults here?" She scratches something down on her clipboard, inspecting the page before they go down the list, respectively introducing themselves to one another (minus the Pyro, who had to be introduced by Miss Pauling since nobody could really understand their muffled mumbling). 

 

She seemed pleased, only to glance around the room. "So, you guys are going to have a check-up with the Medic later, that'll be fun I'm sure. Here's hoping you come back in one piece," Pauling gave a forced laugh, shaking her head. "I'm kidding! If anything, you'll probably come back here with more pieces than anything; he's kind of funny like that. Anyway, you all have your own seperate rooms and your luggage was brought to them for you." 

 

Everyone was clearly exhausted from travel, especially the Demoman who seemed to be blacking out as she spoke, so she started to try and make things quick. "You'll have basic weapons for now based on your specialties and whatnot, blah blah blahh..." she trailed off, squinting at something on the page she was reading. "Basic rules, no fighting on-base with one another, label your things in the fridge, don't leave base without permission, don't go into eachother's rooms which means  _no room parties, Scout,_ " she huffed, shooting the boy a pointed look which causes him to flash her a guilty grin. 

Mikhail was almost falling asleep while standing when somebody walked in, which caused Miss Pauling to cut herself off. 

"Wow! You have started this cute little kindergarten briefing without me! And here, I was under the impression that you liked me, Miss Pauling." 

"I do, but when you're doing  _I don't even want to know_ in your lab, it's kind of hard to keep their attention because they haven't been here for a week and a half, Medic. Now, where was I.." 

Miss Pauling kept talking, but Mikhail wasn't paying attention to her at all. No, he was  _far_ more interested in the man who just walked in. He wasn't exactly old, per se, as he was definitely an adult with broad shoulders and a certain presence about him. Medic, he assumed, had a nearly-perfect hairstyle with a single curl over his forehead, and was far too busy chatting it up with Miss Pauling to even spare the rest of the room a look. 

 

Medic was wearing a cream sweatervest and brown slacks, as well as dress shoes. Not exactly something suited to the heat of New Mexico, but then again Misha wasn't exactly wearing shorts himself. The other  was, judging from the accent, probably German, with a high, nasally but still-masculine voice, and he spoke with a sort of confidence that one could consider it almost obnoxious. 

The two are speaking, but Mikhail couldn't understand--he was too busy staring at the Medic. Whatever Miss Pauling replied with was snarky enough to have the Medic let out a laugh that made the Russian's heart soar. 

 

Misha was  _smitten._   

 

Oh, fuck. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> vote now on your phones


End file.
